True Blue!
by BananaNutCrunch
Summary: In which Grimmjow makes a startling career change. What will the world say to their newest cover boy? Slight crack. Rated T for swearing, courtesy of Jeagerjaques, naturally.


"Tell me why the fuck I'm doing this again."

"We have been through this, Grimmjow. Aizen-sama said that it was imperative we make an effort to raise funds, which are essential to our plans of world domination."

"I get that, but why the fuck are we stuck doing something as stupid as this? Why couldn't we just, I dunno, loot a bank or something?!"

"Because Aizen-sama says you have nice hair."

Grimjow fell into an uncomfortable silence at Ulquiorra's last statement.

"O-okay…" he tried again. "_Hallibel's_ got nice hair. And she's a girl, too. Why can't _she _do it? Appearing in ads is what girls do, right?"

"You do realise this advertisement is for _hair gel_?"

Grimmjow snorted. "Okay, then why not Stark? Nice hair there. And he's got the whole cool cowboy-thing going on, don't he?"

"You of all people should know that Stark is unreliable in matters such as these," Ulquiorra stated. Grimmjow had to agree. He could just imagine Stark falling asleep right on set.

"What about Szayel? _He _has pretty pink hair."

Ulquiorra shrugged. "He was not manly enough, so Aizen-sama tells me. And to forestall your coming suggestions, Barragan is too old, Zommari is bald, Yammy has always had an atrocious hairstyle to begin with, and do I even have to_ mention_ Aeroniero?"

"Nnoitora?"

Ulquiorra sniffed. "Really, Grimmjow. As trashy as these humans are, are you_ really_ of the impression that they'd wish to advertise hair that looks and feels as though it has not been washed in a week?"

Even Grimmjow couldn't argue with that.

"Why don't _you _do it, Ulquiorra?" he tried.

Ulquiorra turned to look at him.

Grimmjow felt his eyeballs attempting to crawl back into his skull at the look Ulquiorra was giving him. Taking great care not to shriek like a little girl, he held his hands up in compromise.

"Okay, okay, not you! But, why can't Aizen just do it himself? Or Gin, or even that Tosen bastard! Come on, he'd be great in an ad! The guy looks like Busta Rhymes!"

"You know our commanders are too important to be busied with such trivial tasks. Besides, I really must point out that Tosen-sama looks more like T-Pain than Busta Rhymes. Now, stop your complaining, Grimmjow. Bear in mind that I am being kind enough to escort you there."

"Bullshit, Aizen just told you to come so I wouldn't get lost."

Ulquiorra sighed. "This is also true. But still. Do not complain. You should be honoured at the fact that you have been chosen for a task as beneficial to our cause as this."

Grimmjow couldn't help but murmur under his breath at this. "Don't see _you _clamouring to do it."

Ulquiorra glared at him again.

He shut up.

**00**

"**WHAT IS THIS BULLSHIT?!"**

Several make-up girls and a terrified camera man scurried out of the way as a rolled-up script came barrelling toward them, looking frighteningly similar to a missile.

Grimmjow leapt out of his chair, screaming at the top of his lungs. **"WHO WROTE THIS SHIT? I AIN'T DOING THIS! WHERE'S THAT BLOODY SCRIPTWRITER?!"**

A small, squirrely, and currently shaking man was hurriedly shoved forward. "Y-yes?" he quavered, bracing himself for the worst. Grimmjow rounded on him.

"**HOW THE **_**HELL **_**DID YOU COME UP WITH THIS CRAP?!" **he brandished a copy of the script in the unfortunate writers face. **"I **_**REFUSE **_**TO DO THIS!"** He unrolled the script and began to quote parts of it. " _'Actor A (dressed as a merman): All this saltwater is making my beautiful hair become unruly and messy! Whatever should I do? Actor B (dressed as seaweed): Use True Blue! Guaranteed to take beautiful care of your lustrous hair!'_ **WHAT IN THE EVERLOVING HELL WERE YOU SMOKING WHEN YOU WROTE THIS?!"**

From the other side of the room, Ulquiorra's voice carried, just loud enough to be heard above the din. "I already told you, Grimmjow. You do not have a choice in this matter._ Do as you are told_."

Grimmjow spun around, furious. "NO WAY IN HELL! TAKE A LOOK AT THIS CRAP, WOULD YA?" he hurled the script across the room. Ulquiorra caught it deftly with one hand, unrolled it again and gave it a cursory glance. For one split second, his face contorted into something of a grimace. "This is trash," he agreed, crumpling and lobbing the abused script at the likewise abused scriptwriter. "Do it again."

At this moment, the director chose to intervene.

He was a tall, slender man wearing a goatee, beret and the slightly out-of-place highlights that made up the unofficial uniform of overzealous performers everywhere. "Hang on, hang on!" he shouted, stepping in front of Ulquiorra. "I don't like your attitude, mister! I'll have you know that you have no right to kick up a fuss about the script, because I could just as easily have you and your blue boy _replaced!"_

Grimmjow had to admit, it was stupid, but pretty courageous.

Our intrepid director suddenly found a very sharp sword pointed at his neck. He let out an involuntary squeak of surprise.

Ulquiorra regarded the man calmly, betraying no change of expression. "No," he finally said. "no, I don't think you _can_ replace us, sir. I don't think it would be wise _at all_. Now, _please _be a gentleman about this. I believe you would find it to be in your best interest to agree to our terms."

Grimmjow sniggered as the man nodded cautiously, to avoid getting his throat cut. The blade disappeared. Ulquiorra stepped forward.

"Now. _Let's get this over with."_

**00**

_Ichigo Kurosaki sat at home in front of the TV, alone. It was past midnight, and Ichigo was single-handedly polishing off the contents of the ice-cream tub. There was nothing good on TV at the moment._

_Beside him sat a plastic bag full of groceries. Absentmindedly, he rummaged around inside it, looking for the new bottle of gel that Yuzu had gotten him. He took a look at the blue bottle and read the label. " 'True Blue'," he said aloud._

_At that moment, a break in the current TV show caught his attention. It seemed to be an ad he had never seen before. _

_It started in the desert; a bleak, sandy wasteland. The camera cut to a lone motorcycle being driven down no path in particular. It was a beautiful machine; glossy black and shiny metal. With its high handlebars and oversized exhaust, it looked like something out of the sixties. Unlike most sixties bikes, however, it was not marred by any gaudy designs. Just a single insignia where the handles met; a huge, elaborately detailed skull._

_The rider himself seemed like a piece of work; clad completely in black leather and metal spikes studded into a 666 on the back of his jacket. His helmet obscured his face from view, lending him an aura of mystery._

_Ichigo watched in fascination as the bike pulled over right outside of a bar. He was only vaguely aware of the ice-cream dripping off of his spoon, as the masked rider somehow managed to involve himself in a brawl. The teenager in front of the screen fought the urge to whoop out loud as the black-clad hero took down two men at once with a pool cue, and nailed a third across the back with a well-placed elbow._

_Ichigo was slightly awestruck, watching the man finish his fight and make his way to the bar to join two impossibly gorgeous women. "__**That guy is so cool**__," Ichigo whispered to himself, mouth wide open in admiration._

"_Just gimme a beer," a voice like black velvet swept from the screen. Ichigo leaned forward unconsciously, waiting for the masked rider to reach up and remove his helmet._

_Seconds passed. _

"**GRIMMJOW?!"**

**00**

"_For a hairstyle as tough as you are, in any situation. True Blue." _

Minutes went by in silence, Ichigo sitting on the couch with a look of horror frozen on his face. He turned mechanically, and regarded the blue bottle next to him with a sort of silent apprehension.

It sat there, glowering bluely at him.

Ichigo shot out a trembling hand and snatched up the bottle, bolting down the corridor to the bathroom.

He skidded to a halt in front of the sink. Trembling slightly, he held the offending article at arm's length in front of him.

"_May the bastard responsible for this rot in hell for giving me weeks of nightmares to come_," he whispered savagely, a look of grim determination etched firmly upon his face.

With one final shudder, Ichigo Kurosaki poured the entire contents of the bottle down the bathroom sink.

**00**

Somewhere in Las Noches, Aizen sneezed.

**OH SHUT UP. I know this was pointless and bad. I just need a break, okay? And I KNOW I should be working on Poison Pink. So what am I doing writing this trash? Uhm. Writers block? (excuses, excuses) *rereads* God. Please. If I ever become like that poor scriptwriter…just…shoot me. Please. Put me out of my misery. **

**AND REVIEW! REVIEW UNLESS YOU WANT ME TO HAVE A NERVOUS BREAKDOWN! PLEASE! HAVE MERCY! *grovels***

***On a brighter note who else wants to see the Espada as bikers? :D**


End file.
